


Nightmares

by hipbonesofChrist



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Depression, Grief, Loss, Mentions of alcoholism, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipbonesofChrist/pseuds/hipbonesofChrist
Summary: Pierre survives, but what does it matter when everyone else he's ever cared about is gone? A oneshot featuring a traumatized Count and his nightmares.
Kudos: 8





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> I just dredged this up from the depths of my Google Drive, it's a few years old, but it's finished, so that's something.

“I was only trying to help...God, I was only trying to help him and…”

It was a calm, clear night, beautifully crisp, but Pierre could enjoy none of it. Trapped in the imaginary throes of war—not for the first time, and certainly not for the last—he tossed and turned on his downy mattress, memories from weeks ago blurring with the events of the past few days.

“No, please...no, no…”

Before the war, before his capture, he took pleasure in roaming the dark Russian streets, enjoying the quiet, craning his head to look at the stars above the spiraling church spires. Now, he was so _tired_ all the time. It took great effort to get out of his bed in the mornings, and he went back to it far earlier than he ever had before, oftentimes skipping dinner. Even his servants, the few he hadn’t sent away upon returning, could see that something was very wrong with him.

“H-Hélène? You’re not supposed to be here...dear God…” A familiar face had appeared on the battlefield, when she should have been miles away, poisoning herself. But in his night terrors, those lines blurred.

Dolokhov saving him, embracing him, had been the best moment of his life. And yet everything had only gotten worse from there. After returning to his estate, recovering in solitude for a fortnight, he’d learned of Hélène’s suicide. His gut had twisted in anger and guilt, and even sadness. The war had dulled his hatred for her, and he no longer wished for her death...but it was far too late now. If only he’d gotten her letter…

There was no one there to comfort Pierre, to tell him her death, or Andrei’s or Anatole’s, wasn’t his fault. And so that guilt remained steadfast, consuming every part of his waking and sleeping moments. A peaceful night was a luxury the young Count Bezukhov, for all his wealth, could not afford.

With a tortured cry, Pierre awoke from his nightmare sweating and shivering, sitting upright and looking at the empty side of his bed with wide eyes already brimming with tears. Everyone had been in his dream—everyone he’d lost. Sometimes it was one or two people, but on nights like this when he felt particularly low, his brain dredged up every mistake he’d ever made, and set them loose to run rampant in his mind.

“I’m s-sorry.” The words seemed to hang in the air, helpless and broken. Pierre’s broad chest hitched with every breath, until he put his face in his hands and began to cry in earnest. He’d always felt rather alone, but never _this_ alone, where it seemed like an actual, physical pain, ripping him apart from the inside out. In the span of a mere few months, he’d lost his wife, his best friend, his...whatever Anatole was to him...his dignity, his sanity…

“Stop it, _stop it!”_ Pierre carded his fingers through his long hair and yanked hard, trying to put a halt to the thoughts spinning through his mind. Sometimes it seemed there were altogether too many—although Pierre was a big man, and so he didn’t doubt he had a big head, he often felt like it would explode with all the thoughts and guilt and horror shoved into it by the war.

“Count Bezukhov?” A servant, roused by the shouting, knocked urgently on Pierre’s bedroom door. Pierre started, his arms wrapping around his legs and drawing them close to his broad chest.

“Leave me alone!” It came out more of a choked sob than a command, but the servant obeyed anyways, albeit biting his lip in concern. Pierre was still and silent for a long moment afterwards, and finally let his body collapse to the side, curled in a fetal position on his bed and grasping at the duvet, pulling it over his shivering shoulders. _Alone._ He was painfully, excruciatingly alone, all the time, no matter who he was with. No one could drive this loneliness from him—no one, unless the dead could rise.

Sometimes—usually accompanied by a large, half-full bottle of vodka—he imagined what would happen if everyone he’d lost simply just came back to life again. But of course, that thought made him feel horrible for two reasons, the first being, it could never happen. The second, more morbid reason was that they would never be the same. They’d all experienced too much war, too much hurt and pain, to be the same as they were before. Pierre didn’t know which hurt more: thinking of Anatole dead, or thinking of Anatole if he had lived, walking around shell-shocked and a completely different person. He wasn’t sure if he could have handled that—if Anatole could have handled that. Perhaps he would have committed suicide, and which was worse, really? Dying on the battlefield, or dying by one’s own hand?

Swallowing hard, Pierre choked out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Stop thinking so hard, old man, Anatole would have said. Stop thinking and drink some more. You’ll feel better.

“Oh, Anatole...” The words slipped from Pierre’s lips in a pained whisper, accompanying the tears now streaming down his cheeks. He pressed his face into the pillow, trying to stave them off, but to no avail. “Andrei...how could you have left me here? How can I, the least deserving of life, be the only one left to live it?”

Closing his eyes, Pierre waited for an answer from his friends, from his late wife, from God...from anyone. Anyone at all that would make him believe he was not so alone. 

While he was waiting for this answer, he fell asleep.

The nightmares started again.


End file.
